Shades of Grey
by Aimlessly Unknown
Summary: She was not born grey.


I've always loved Helena. Mostly after the line _he defiled it with dark magic _- but seriously. I love her and I wanted to write something about her. So this is kind of a headcanon - I **know **Rowena and Godric weren't in a relationship (that we know of).

So, read and review please!

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She was not born grey. She was born red; born red and squalling, a child with lungs large enough to hold all the air of the room and release it in a stream of high pitched tones. Rowena leans down, holding her new child close to her chest, and smiles in a way that Godric had never seen. Rowena murmurs gentle things – a blessing on her child, a hope for a great future, and the promise to always protect her child. She rests her head on her child's and the girl, lungs acclimatizing to the air around her, stares up silently at the long veil of black surrounding her.

With tiny hands the girl reaches up and attempts to take hold of the waterfall of black. The curls tangle themselves in her tiny hand and the child's eyes glow. But Rowena pulls her hair free, handing her girl off to the father. It is with a heavy heart that she relinquishes the child's warmth; wanting, instead, to pull the child so close that she almost wants to pull the child back into her.

He holds his own child carefully, staring down at large, bright eyes. She is so light in his arms, so gentle. It is with awe and reverence that he stares down at her. This child that is his; he is suddenly willing to die a most painful death to keep this child safe. He would crawl on broken glass for hours to spare her a second's worth of pain. He presses a kiss on the crown of her head and whispers a dark, bloody promise to wreak havoc on anyone that dared touch a hair on her precious head.

(there would be blood, blood and pain in the spirit of those who dare inflict pain upon this child; any hair that is misplaced, any formless bruise that blossoms shall be paid back with swords and steel and magic and _crucio_)

"Precious girl," He croons, "such a precious girl."

Rowena reaches out with a pale hand to touch his arm. He steps towards his lover and leans down to rest on the bed.

"You take up so much space, my love." He tells Rowena kindly.

She barely has the energy to cast him a dark glare, "You are far bigger than I am, Kitten."

"I am a lion, Sparrow; one should do well to remember." He says.

She pulls her child from his arms, "What ought we to name her, Godric?"

"What name catches your fancy, Rowena?" He asks, pressing a kiss to her lips. He can almost taste the weariness on her lips – his Sparrow had done so well, so well indeed. With care he wraps his arms around her shoulders, holding both his lover and his child close. Rowena leans a heavy head on his chest, burrowing into his warmth.

"I should think Helena would be fitting for her." Rowena says drowsily. Her eyelids fall over dark eyes, she is so close to sleep. The midwife steps back into the room, warning Godric that she should rest. With a sharp tongue Rowena snaps that she will be fine. The midwife, cautious of the powerful witch, bows out gracefully.

"Helena?" Godric asks, knowing his lover's penchant for explaining things to him. She likes to look down on him; it makes it much more enjoyable when he is able to knock her off of her high-dragon and make her see him for what he knows he is.

"It is Latin for corposant." Rowena's voice becomes slurred.

"Why do you choose Helena, my darling?"

"She will be bright." Rowena says; she uses her tone of 'I Know More Than You Could Ever Hope To'.

Godric presses one last kiss to her head and takes the child back in his arms, to hand back to the midwife. The moment he steps away Rowena's head falls back and she is fast asleep.

/

She grows up in a burst of colour. She knows the richness of red, the coolness of blue, the striking shades of silver that dance like stars, and she knows the vivacity of yellow. She knows that her hair is not black, it is dark ebony. She knows her eyes are not brown, they are ochre. She sees that her mother's hair is blue-black, that her eyes are a timbre of brown. Her father's hair is auburn and blonde, his eyes scream of a startling amber colour that echoes in the souls of people. He is remembered for his brightness and compliments her mother's darkness so well that it is like they are two pieces of a puzzle.

Her dresses are a salmon pink, her room is bright orange, her bed is mauve, her skin turns lobster red in the sunshine, and her shoes are all neon green. She is a rainbow and a supernova of shades. She is the very light in the sun, the glow of the moon, the green of the grass; she is the black in the books. She loves all colours.

"What is your least favourite colour, precious girl?" Her father asks as he tucks her into her darkened sheets at night. She looks at him with curious eyes; there could be no colour that she hates. None; it just couldn't be possible

/

She was born with a startling awareness of the world. She knows this much because she can recall, with startling accuracy, the very colour of the cloth donned by her midwife. It was a particularly damning grey colour; barely the shade of stone.

So it is no surprise that she grows up to know just how important it is that no one knows who her father is. There is no hiding her lineage about her Mother; the eyes, dark, and hair, ever darker, give it away instantly. She is always known as 'Ravenclaw'. She will always be known as Helena Ravenclaw – the daughter of Rowena Ravenclaw. She knows that she will never be known as Helena – the girl that reads; or Helena – the girl with a gentle smile. She wishes she could be. But her gentle smile falls away to a stern one, ever more the ghost of her mother.

But she can hide her father. It will always be better to be the 'Ravenclaw' girl rather than the 'Gryffindor and Ravenclaw' hybrid. She will hide her freckles beneath charms. She hides her rebellious streak under a thousand books. She changes friends constantly, hiding the burning loyalty – the thing that hurts her the most. She breaks her own heart a thousand times so as to keep the small amount of individuality that she has left.

She grows to be eleven and is sent off to Hogwarts. She asks to go by another name. Any other name; but her mother says no. Tells her to be proud of her heritage, calls her darling, and her father teases her.

Her father tells her that he wouldn't want to be known as her mother's prodigy. Helena bites back the retort behind her teeth – the one that tells him how she doesn't want to be his progeny either. Her father calls her 'precious girl' and she forces out a smile. It is stone cold and sharp – it is her mother's smile.

She goes to Hogwarts and the hurtful whispers that follow are, painfully, expected.

/

When her father dies they bury him in a dark black coffin and shut him under a tombstone of the most deeply coloured slate grey she has ever seen.

"Grey," She whispers to the flower in her hands. No one understands the word as it falls from her lips. Not even her mother with all her brains and books and brilliance.

"I hate grey."

/

Her mother's diadem is beautiful. She used to put it on her head and dance with it, feeling like a princess. She did it until her father caught her. She did it until her father told her that she looked so much like her mother with it on. She put it back and did not touch it again.

When she turns seventeen she contemplates running away. She does not know how, but she knows why with the startling clarity that followed her since birth. The curve of her father's jaw is no longer soothing on her head as he holds her. Her mother's hug is no longer a source of comfort. These things had survived her bitter rage as a child and now can never hold the same affection as they once did. She grows bitterer as winter passes. Even the snow is not as cold as the envy in her heart. Her mother is beautiful, is smart, and is the one thing that people see when they look at Helena. The woman wishes so badly to become the light that her name means. She wishes to glow like a thousand shimmering stars in the sky above her head.

She sees the diadem in everything she does. In every breath of another there is the memory of her breath fogging the diamonds. In every turn of a cloak there is the striking of her dresses flowing as she becomes a princess. And it hurts the most when she looks at the Baron's eyes – they are dark and inviting, so much like the diadem itself.

The desperation for escape clings to her, following her as a shadow would. With sudden, yet not a shocking, lurch of her spirit Helena races from the grounds of Hogwarts as a Seventh Year. Tucked in her coat is her mother's diadem.

It is the first betrayal Rowena Ravenclaw suffers.

/

She is in Albania when he finds her. She is hiding as far away as she can go and still it isn't enough (it never is, a voice tells her that sounds strikingly like her mother's). He runs to her with all the ferocity of a lover scorned. He tells her that her mother is ill, that her mother will die. That she _must_ return to her mother and make peace. It is the _must_ that forces Helena's hatred to the top. She _must _not do _anything_. She can do _whatever _she wishes! She is finally free of the shackles of her life. She is _free_.

She tells him as much. She speaks with her mother's Scottish accent and her father's excited tone, "I'm free, Baron. I can be whatever I desire! You will return and tell her no. You will tell her that I'm happy where I am and that I will never return. She will know I love her, she will know I shall miss her desperately, but this is my future. This is my road and I intend to see it through."

He does what she least expects. He flies into a rage – cursing her very name and saying that if she does not return then he will never forgive her. She tells him she does not need his forgiveness – she just needs herself. And he draws his sword.

She turns on her heel and sprints away; there is too much fear for her to recall magic. She runs as fast as she possibly can and still he follows – still he hunts. When he catches her there is no love in his eyes. There is pain, though. Pain that echoes in her body as her blood stains his body and she dies slowly. Death hurts more than she can imagine, but not more than knowing she has never been her own person. She has never been Helena – the brilliant one. She has been Helena – the betrayal. She has been the pain.

When she dies Helena wishes so desperately to be seen by someone – even as a corpse. And yet the snow of winter falls on her she is obscured from the view of other's. And it is the worst kind of end she can imagine.

It does not surprise her when she becomes a ghost.

/

When she arrives at Hogwarts the Headmaster asks what she wishes to be called. It is a moment where she can hold to her family's name, let the world survive and know that she is part of a lineage that held victors and geniuses. But she can't, because how on earth could she live in death without a name of her own? She wants to be part of the stone of Hogwarts, it is where she belongs. She knows now that her name can never be correct because she is not meant to be seen.

Looking around the room she notices the colour that spreads like a web throughout the castle. Something everyone _sees_ but doesn't quite _see_. It is all she has ever been; seen yet not.

She opens her mouth.

" _I am the Grey Lady_."

/

Luna is kind. She is gentle; made of soft yellows and pastels. She tells the Grey Lady stories of creatures far beyond. The Grey Lady does not smile, that is normal, Luna expects that. Then there is the silence that billows in with the wind and settles.

"You have a pretty smile." Luna says breezily, her unfocused eyes gleaming in the moonlight as stars would in the sky.

The confession slips, "I have my mother's smile."

Those few moments between the words the Grey Lady wonders if Luna will speak of her mother and say something as a passing comment; something that will force the Grey Lady to make her leave. There is pain in the silence – the Grey Lady does not want Luna to go away.

"I wonder if the Thestrals are out." Luna says easily. But the Grey Lady has faded away – blended back into the empty spaces of the castle's hollows.

Luna expects this as well.

/

The boy swears gentle things, swears destruction. But the Grey Lady does not wish destruction. Part of her wants to ruin the diadem, to see it burn in the fires of her hate, but a larger part of it clings to her. Had, at once, wandered to it – drawn by it – and whispered as if her mother could hear her from beyond the grave. There was silence then.

She whispers where the dark thing lurks. Does not ask for assurance; by now she is all too aware of how easily people break their promises. She knows he will not destroy it. He will see it and be moved as all were upon gazing at her mother. He will let it alone. Just as all have done before him, all who see it do not ravage it. It is a memory. A powerful, potent memory; like poison.

Then she feels it. There is darkness staining it. There is poison spreading over it. She feels it. Part of a soul, tearing into the memory and perverting it – there is something that should not be there. Something intrusive; the Grey Lady speeds, through walls and trees and countries, into the forest where the poison lies – where the boy that lied lies, skin sallow and eyes dark.

"_NO_!" She wails. The boy smiles beguilingly. She rushes at him, screaming foul, hateful things at him. He presses his wand to the hollow of her throat (there is no fear, he cannot hurt a ghost) and whispers a spell. Instantly she feels all her atoms dissipate and she is gone.

When she comes back, he is gone.

And the diadem (her mother and her memory and her love) is ruined.

/

"He's lied to a lot of people." The strange boy says this as if it is supposed to surprise her. She knows the monster's guise – she knows what he has done to it. She can feel it – tucked against her breast where the diadem last was (as she withered in the snow and the Baron stole everything from her) – burning.

"_I know what he did_!" She shrieks. Her voice is like ice, cracked and frozen. "He _defiled _it, with _dark magic_!"

The strange boy reels as if he's been slapped. But she never would lay a hand on him. She couldn't if she wished. Her hand would phase through him, would turn to smoke and dust; the remnants of a sting would burn but there would be no feeling. There's never any feeling anymore.

This boy swears. He reminds her of the poison. But this boy's eyes are honest and his voice is earnest. He wants the end of this Great War. She does not mind the War so much, merely the ruckus it causes. As well as the destruction of her home that it causes.

So she, in her mother's fashion, whispers a riddle (riddle, thomas, monster, voldemort, betrayal, diadem, diadem, _poison_) and lets the Gryffindor solve it. Eventually she feels the diadem wither. It leaves a hole in her chest – where her heart would be if it was still there (but she is a ghost and all that is there is ash and snow) – and she doesn't know where to go from here.

Apparently she does not have a choice; as the diadem fades, so does she. She sees the tips of her fingers turn to whispers of wind, fading away. She watches in horrified fascination as her limbs disappear. She closes her eyes as the wind blows her away.

/

Her eyes snap open. Buttery sunlight glints warmly on her skin. Her alabaster skin darkens in places, scars along her flesh that are shades of pink and white. She sits up, dark tumbles of ebony falling gracefully over her shoulders. In front of her is her mother standing with her father. They are smiling at her – arms around each other. Her mother's ochre hair blows in the imaginary wind and her dark eyes burn like charcoal; contrasting harshly with her father's bright colours and stark shades of gold.

The world around her has exploded with colour. The trees are a dreamy brown, the sky is a startling blue, and every shade of green falls in graceless hues. She rises to her feet, stands at her mother's height now – she has grown.

"Come to us, my torch," Her mother coos – her voice is gentle here.

Her father booms. "Precious girl, why do you stand so far from us? Come along – we must depart now."

Their eyes are warm, like fires and hearths, like homes (nothing like the biting, bitter cold that had stolen her) – they whisper to Helena. "_We have been waiting for you for many ages, my darling_."

She has missed them. Desperately, the pain was like an ache. Like a sharp knife in every move she'd ever made – every smile of her mother's, every gentle curl of her hair that echoed of her father. She had missed them so much that she had gone numb to it. Had burned the pain out of her with the fires of a hatred that had been long since snuffed out; and never thought to regret it – never thought because she _always_ regretted it.

Helena darts towards them, her navy dress billowing behind her. She does not care if she looks silly – had never been allowed to be silly, the child of a stern-faced woman must be as stern – because this is her mother and her father and Merlin she's missed them.

The Grey Lady is left behind as Helena bursts forward, towards a world of colour.

* * *

Aimlessly Unknown


End file.
